


your time will come

by mydrunkjoey



Category: Football RPF
Genre: AU, Borussia Dortmund, Fluff, M/M, all of bvb is in this (as well as some ex-bvb players), expect this to be a long chaptered au and expect other ships and characters to have cameos--
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-04-15 02:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4590348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydrunkjoey/pseuds/mydrunkjoey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco wants more out of life than scrubbing dishes and waiting tables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I'm Marco."

'I just want to feel the way I feel when I'm looking at the stars,' sounds too poetic and forced.

It's the sort of answer Marco would laugh at if it wasn't him considering it. (He loves the stars, loves the galaxy, the milky way, the planets and chipped off meteors, and all the light he cannot see. But alas, getting a degree in astronomy requires a little bit more than admiration for fiery rocks.) He rubs his knuckles and shrugs his bare shoulders. It's dark enough that Marco can barely see him-- curly hair soft against his forehead and the curve of his back in the moonlight. Marco is leaning against the bed frame and Mats is rubbing his knees.

“I want someone nice,” Marco decides. Mats raises a brow as if offended by the accusation, though his body stays unmoving and his expression turns neutral once more.

“I'm not nice?”

“You're okay.” He drops his gaze, focuses on the way the clouds paint across his toes and looks up when Mats is shuffling on the sheets. Marco meets dark eyes, and he half expects Mats to touch him again, gentle and warm-- but he doesn't. Instead, he cocks his head and watches Marco's expression, unbelieving and playful and it eases the tension just a little bit.

“You're a romantic,” Mats coos and Marco has nothing to say in return. He smiles regardless, lip tugging on one end as he slaps Mats' shoulder. Marco slaps him again when he doesn't budge. “Alright-- alright I'm going.” He scrambles up, pulls on his briefs and jeans (Marco admires the view for a moment, he thinks he deserves it) and wrestles his dress shirt on. “I hope you do.”

“Do what?”

“Find someone nice.”

 

~

 

Marco ends up late to work because of a broken shoe. (The sole had torn right off.) And in order to save money, he ran back all four blocks to change into something soiled but durable, and ran his way back. He gets an earful by the time Jürgen catches him knotting up his apron.

He's assigned dishwashing duty as punishment, but Marco doesn't mind so much. He sort of likes the way his fingers get soft and wrinkled-- they feel funny and keep him awake. Mats handles the pan as always, and they work in whispered conversations for the next few hours.

It becomes chaotic at noon, and Jürgen becomes more and more nervous than everyone else collectively as the minutes pass. (Leave it to Neven and the rest of the baristas to concoct something fruity and calming enough for the poor guy.) Everything is routine, Marco's fingers become prune-like, Mats burns himself again, and Kevin drops a glass on the floor.

Nothing changes.

 

~

 

“What're you doing after this?” Mats is pulling at the apron around his waist as he speaks, and Marco smears damp fingers against a towel. Tossing the fabric into the dark-eyed German, Marco steps aside to hang his apron swiftly.

“Not you,” he replies with the most subtle of winks.

Somewhere along the path of close friendship,  _ this _ had happened, and Marco, though not complaining for the warm company on the colder nights, is quite sure that  _ this _ isn't conventional. That Mats trudging behind him with a hand smoothing around his stomach-- might mean something more than they make it out to be.

Still, Marco pinches his knuckles and steps out of the kitchen. “Not today,” he finalizes as he grabs his jacket from the coat rack.

“Then what?” Mats is leaning under an arch, arms folded, content satisfaction obvious on his face.

“Today,” the moon is out-- “I'll find someone nice.”

 

~

 

Truth be told, he doesn't know where to look. Instead, there are ten minutes of silence that keep Marco company as he sits himself on a bench outside the restaurant. He's motionless long enough that he ends up waving at Neven and Jürgen, almost knocks Kevin out when the clumsy German tries to sneak up on him, and sends a wink in Mats' direction. And then there's more silence.

Marco thinks about it, seriously thinks about it (like he's done so a thousand times before), about what sort of “nice person” he's looking for. He considers the library but Marco still wants the thrill. He considers the club but Marco also wants the romance. He considers the art gallery but Marco knows nothing about art.

He picks the park.

 

~

 

It occurs to Marco halfway through that sitting alone at a park in the dark hours of the evening, isn't a good nor an even remotely safe way, to meet people.

The moon is taunting this time around, all bright and lonesome in the night sky.

Sitting uncomfortably on a slightly damp bench, Marco lets his head fall back and his gaze meets the tiniest glimmering stars.

“Had a good day?”

Marco has a near heart attack.

He jumps almost comically out from his seat, and turns towards the voice. “Shit-- sorry, sorry I scared you.” He doesn't recognize the man, doesn't recognize the voice, and maybe it's because Marco (and everyone else in this neighbourhood) had been conditioned to fear all late night park wanderers in hoodies, he takes a few steps back.

“Do I know you?”

“No-- no I don't think so? I just... You were smiling at something,” the stranger mumbles, fingers sweeping back his hood. Ridiculous hair, dark skin, neatly trimmed facial hair, bright eyes. There's a wide smile on the man's face which would seem suspicious and sinister if this same man didn't (subjectively) have the friendliest looking face in the city-- maybe even the country. Maybe even the world.

“And do you approach everyone who smiles? Is that a thing of yours,” Marco questions, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Yeah, that's what I do, I scour the park at--” he checks his watch, a rather fancy looking branded one, “22:35 for happy people to ask why they're happy. It's a very specific job.” And maybe it's the exhaustion, but Marco can't help a grin and the other man can't help but continue talking. “Can I do my job then? Ask you why you're happy?”

Marco doesn't consider himself naive, but he relaxes anyway, lets his walls fall down in front of this man he knows absolutely nothing about-- other than the fact that he seems to like the park and is relatively funny. Marco sits himself down again and leaves enough space to his right for company.

“I was thinking about the stars.”

“Huh.” As expected, the dark-skinned stranger takes the seat beside him and stills his eyes on Marco. He clears his throat.

“I have a friend--”

“Just one friend?”

“Very funny.”

“Aren't I?” The young man shoots Marco a toothy grin and he loses any possible witty retort.

“I have a friend,” he starts again, “who thinks that I'm really optimistic because I don't feel small looking at the stars. I don't feel insignificant or lost or without purpose. There are people who do, and it makes sense because stars-- stars are huge and countless and they emit light and heat. They're beautiful, arguably more than anything else on Earth.” He steals a glance over at the stranger who, oddly enough, is without words so he continues. “And it makes sense why people would feel weak or sad looking up at the galaxy, so massive and capable. Because _that_ \--” Marco gestures to the sky, “doesn't need us. We need _that_.”

“But?”

Marco smiles. “But we also come from that. I don't know how religious you are, but science and the works of humans say that the Earth came about because of stars, and _we_ came about because of stars. We _are_ stars, and not in the figurative celebrity way but in a literal way. And-- and if we come from those beautiful things in the sky, dangerous and important and gorgeous, then so are we. Then we can't be insignificant. Then we can't be small at all.”

It's the longest and most honest ramble he's had since he tried to sit Mats down (to discuss the boundaries of their not-relationship--) and he'd just done it in front of a nameless man with a grey hoodie. He almost feels silly, almost, except the nameless man is grinning at him, and not in a way that seems the slightest bit condescending or conniving.

“I don't know about everyone else, but you're _definitely_ a star.” Marco feels his neck burn and he tilts his head just a few degrees back. There's a smile edging onto his lips and it bothers him how difficult it is to keep it off.

“Are you flirting with me?”

“What happens if I say yes?”

“First? I'm going to ask you your name.”

“And if I say no?”

“I'm still going to ask you your name.” The stranger laughs and Marco lets himself indulge in the other man's shiny teeth and warm eyes.

“I'm Pierre. My friends call me Auba.”

“I'm Marco. My friends call me Marco.” 'Auba' grins at that.

“Pleasure to meet you Marco.” Pierre extends a hand and Marco takes it, acutely aware of how close they are on the bench. It doesn't help that the moonlight is soft and gentle along the young man's face. And it certainly doesn't help that he'd just word-vomited a whole flurry of embarrassing astronomical data and Auba's reaction was to turn _up_ his charm. “And yes, yes I was flirting with you.”

“Was?”

“ _Am_. I _am_ flirting with you,” Pierre admits.

 

~

 

Marco doesn't go home with Pierre and Pierre doesn't go home with Marco because it turns out that aside from being funny, good looking, and an awfully comforting listener, Pierre's also quite traditionally princely.

Almost frustratingly princely.

They exchanged numbers because Pierre wanted more “starlight in his life,” actual words from actual lips. Marco had tried to be coy and asked what Pierre would do in return, and the charmer, without even missing a beat, (as if suspiciously used to the banter) pulled a grin and promised that their “next date will be set somewhere more romantic than a wet park bench.”

Marco doesn't jump to conclusions then but at home, head under the covers, he does.

He spends ten minutes lying in bed with his eyes still open and his heart thumping erratically in his chest from the mental re-run of what had happened less than an hour ago. Ten whole minutes until Marco sits himself up and he calls Mats (speed dial 4).

It's pushing 2:45am and if it isn't for the fact that it _is_ a Friday and the restaurant opens late on weekends, Marco would give up on the third ring. But Mats is a late sleeper. (He knows that more intimately than anyone else.)

The fourth ring does it.

“Why is it almost 2:45am and you're not asleep,” Mats asks with the first click.

“The same reason why _you're_ not asleep.”

“I doubt it,” Mats murmurs. The line is noisy and there's loud laughter so Marco bites his the bait.

“And why do you doubt it?”

“Because I know you Marco, and you're not awake because you're doing shots with the staff and our boss. I also doubt it because you're not here in the club with us even though you _are_ part of the staff.” Mats takes what Marco assumes to be a shot, and clears his throat. “So hit me, why are you awake?”

“I'll hit you soon, but let me ask again-- you're having shots with our boss? Jürgen is doing shots?”

“M~hm.”

“And you're not snapchatting this to me?”

“Trust me, when I'm sober I'll give you all the blackmail footage I now have.”

“That's almost romantic,” Marco croons with the smallest of grins. “Speaking of romantic-- I'll hit you now.”

“Oh? Let me guess, you found someone nice.”

“Shockingly nice.”

“Are you sure he's a real person? Because the last time you found someone _shockingly nice_ , you met _me_.”

“I make mistakes I know--”

“Ouch, don't call me a mistake Mr. Romantic Reus.” Marco rolls his eyes at that.

“Anyway, he's not a mistake. He's seriously genuine-- and he's really, really, handsome. Handsome and funny and charming and it's almost suspicious.”

“Do I hear wedding bells?”

“No but I can hear someone trying to kiss your neck right now,” the blond scoffs, lopsided grin and all. There are sounds of smacking lips dangerously close to Mats' breathy voice and as curious as he is to whose lips those are, and as familiar as he is with Mats' body and sexual life, (being an occasional part of it and all) Marco decides against listening for more. “So I'm going to hang up before I accidentally take part in phone sex.”

“That sounds like a fun idea for the future,” Mats mumbles, most evidently grinning.

“ _Goodnight_ Mats.”

“I'm sure it will be.”

 


	2. Bitter and Burning

It's exactly 11:00am when the restaurant opens, and the customer activity is immediate. Although the weekdays are already plenty intense, the weekends are _chaotic_ for lack of a better word. Jürgen only ever survives with the help of Neven's coaxing and more fruity drinks. (Marco is pretty sure, regardless of how morbid, that if anyone could die managing a restaurant, Jürgen would be that exact person.)

Their popularity springs from a whole flurry of legitimate reasons.

One, it's hard to deny that the staff is attractive. Jürgen himself is charming in his own passionate and loud way.

Two, the food is incredible. Mats, Schmelle, Gonzo and Olli work the pans and pots without even the slightest worry of burnt facial hair. Kampl, Papa, Kuba, and “Marek” (Lukasz hates it when Marco calls him that, though Marco still does) are nifty with the produce, knives and cheese graters like extended limbs. Nuri, Miki, Kevin and Marco himself are flexible in everything-- whether it be food arrangements, dishwashing duty (usually given to the person latest to arrive) or waiter work.

That leads to the third point, excellent customer service. Erik, Matze, Hoffi, Adnan and Sven are outgoing and sweet. Sven and Erik have got a bit of a bantering tongue, but hey, some people like the feisty sort.

The fourth point goes to the atmosphere and interior look. “The Dortmund Café” is dimly lit, spacious enough to hold a large capacity of “Dortmund fans”, incorporates a unique colour scheme of black, yellow, and dark brown. A mixture of sleek modern furniture and wooden counter tops, there's an atmosphere that suits both the loud cheers of football nights and the romantic whispers of first dates.

And the last reason or the last _apparent_ reason behind their popularity is the bar. Neven is the princely lead barista who, although soft spoken, is gentle and mysterious-- the “fans” love that. The two Romans, and Adrián are the other three baristas that ooze charm.

Attractive staff, great food, great drinks, great atmosphere, and great customer service-- it's no wonder they're one of the few restaurants in the city with actual “fans” who return time and time again.

So yeah, Marco is proud.

He's especially proud today because although he'd barely slept, shamefully having mental replays of his run-in with suspicious hooded man Auba, suspicious hooded man Auba and his slick vocabulary and sparkly teeth, he's one of the first to arrive. Unsurprisingly, Mats is the latest this time and Nuri takes over the pan.

 

~

 

When noon hits one hour into business, Marco already has a list in his head of events worth thinking back on. Marco takes the bar today because Neven-- like many of the other staff, is visibly hungover and a barista with a headache is both ironic and unsafe.

The glooming massive hangover that hits almost everyone leads to two fork accidents where Sven drops one on his way to a fresh table of “fans,” and Papa knocks a whole tray of forks to the floor. (Mats curses under his breath as he soaps all of them up.) Kevin breaks another plate, Bürki mixes the wrong concoction twice, and Jürgen hits his head on some dangling ladles. All in a unique day's work.

 

~

 

At four, the store temporarily closes for their routine break. It's not the most common time to eat lunch-- or dinner-- or whatever it is they have, but a large majority of them gather for the first and only quiet hour of the work day.

Marco expectedly slides beside Mats. The curly haired German is visibly exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, and he's ravenously consuming his pasta with little care.

“A _long_ night?” Marco accuses, eyebrows raised and smirk intact. Mats grins.

“M~hm.”

“Are you going to make me ask why? Or will you just indulge me?”

“I'll indulge you,” Mats starts and leans in with puckered lips before having his cheek shoved towards his plate as Marco rolls his eyes. They share a chuckle and the pointed gazes of the Romans. “Okay, okay, no PDA.”

“Speaking of PDA, who was nibbling your hairy little neck yesterday night?”

“You think my neck is hairy? Look at _your_ neck,” Mats scoffs and points with a wave of his index.

“You're avoiding the topic which could mean two things. You're really into this person, or you're really not into this person. So you have to tell me. It's law now.”

Mats purses his lips and slips himself another lazy forkful. “What do I get in return?”

“I don't know, what do you want?”

“PDA,” the dark-haired temporary dishwasher laughs in between letters.

“You're impossible.”

“ _You're_ impossible. I mean, I'm attractive Reus, and you're attractive, and attractive people mesh together.”

“You're an idiot is what you are. At least let me know if you'll tell me eventually.”

“Eventually,” Mats shrugs.

 

~

 

There's fifteen minutes left of quiet bliss, minus the raucous noise Papa seems to be creating in the kitchen followed by laughter Marco believes to be from the youthful waiters, and he spends it in mental debate.

See, he wants to text Auba.

Marco has Auba's number, and Auba has Marco's number, and someone has to make the first move. Thing is, Auba had asked him for his phone number first, so usually-- expectedly-- Marco is pretty sure he's to wait for the other man to initiate conversation. Mystery man Auba had technically started _everything_ , their meeting, their flirtatious conversation, the exchanging of numbers, everything. So it seems safe to assume that Marco ought to wait.

He waits a good five minutes, temporarily distracted by more chaotic banging from the kitchen, before he gives in.

One text won't do any harm, he tells himself that.

He spends another five minutes editing, re-writing, deleting, and re-starting the one harmless text before settling on:

_what's my name on your phone? (monkey covering one's eyes)_

Everyone likes emojis.

He's all smiles until Marco is immediately reminded as to why he rarely makes the first move-- the wait is painful. A mere minute in without any sign and he's on the verge of biting his nails. (All this being said he's not consistently like this, and although Marco doesn't want to constantly jump to conclusions when it comes to Auba, the attraction is very, very, real. At least on Marco's end.)

He hears a few pots crash in the kitchen and Jürgen is flailing his arms as he makes his way towards Papa's antics.

Marco turns his phone off for the rest of the work day.

 

~

 

He forgets about getting a reply until he gets home.

Mussing up his hair and tossing his keys onto the couch, Marco hops into the shower and it's cold. (He'd read up on an article comparing the benefits of cold showers versus warm ones.) It's 10 minutes in when he remembers. The emoji, the tip-toe-ingly flirtatious first text, and Auba's name brightly lit on the screen.

He scrambles out as soon as the knob's turned shut, hair still damp and clothes clinging to wet skin.

Powering up his phone feels like an eternity. He drips all over his bedsheets, toes drying themselves on his carpet as he waits for things to click-- waits for his phone to vibrate and show some sign of life. The longer everything takes, the more Marco realizes how ridiculous he's being, from the desperation to the quick infatuation.

He considers Mats words, wonders if he'd made a mistake (yet again).

The worry doesn't last long because his phone shakes in his hand and Auba's name lights up at the top of his screen right beside two replies.

_i wanna say that it's starlight but rn it's still marco (monkey covering one's mouth)_

_what's my name on yours? ;)_

Marco's grin takes up his whole face.

 

~

 

They text for a good hour. Marco has dinner while glued to his tiny little screen, and does his evening stretches with squinting eyes.

_whatcha up to now?_

_not much, why?_

_wanna hang? my friend's holding a house party (martini glass)_

Marco doesn't even blink before he agrees.

 

~

 

Auba's friend's place is _huge_.

There's a swimming pool, a ridiculously gorgeous balcony and any place that has rooms dedicated to hobbies is extravagant in Marco's eyes.

He meets Auba right in front and it's embarrassing but Auba is illuminated by the garden lights and Marco's tongue knots itself in his throat. Their meeting is wordless just faint smiles, and Marco feels blessed because of it.

He's introduced to the owners of the place, two young (surprisingly young) and fit boys with their arms thrown around each other. They're quite an uncommon but cute looking couple, Shinji and Ilkay-- one with his freckled face and happy eyes, and the other with his neatly trimmed beard and toothy smile. Uncommon but they match each other, Marco thinks.

“They're usually more wild than that,” Auba informs him, lips dangerously near Marco's red-tipped ears. “I think they're trying to give a good first impression. Usually they're throwing pillows at each other from across the room, or – kissing in the pool until they both get colds. Children really.” He says it all with a radiant grin on his face.

“A part of me thinks that you're equally as wild, if not, more.” They're slipping past crowds and out to the pool, and Auba scoffs.

“And a part of me thinks that it's for me to know, and you to find out.”

“I'll find out.”

“I sure hope you do,” Auba coos and Marco's burning.

 

~

 

Auba doesn't do Marco any favours when he tugs his shirt off. Here's Marco trying his absolute best to slow down and climb his way down the long, long, ladder of love-- but he's falling, Auba's body a heavy 6-ton weight shackled onto his ankles.

Basically, he's beautiful.

It isn't just the muscle, but it's the little tufts of body hair, the small scars, the curves and dips, it's everything. And Marco's a confident person, he walks comfortably and holds himself high, but here by the pool with a man who may as well have been carved by the Gods themselves, Marco falters.

“C'mon, show me what you got,” the Adonis murmurs, toothy smile and all.

“In front of you? I'll be that guy in the movies who wears the t-shirt.”

“You flatter me. I know the real reason though, you're protecting me – shielding me from losing my sanity when you're exposed in all your surreal beauty.”

It's easier to laugh and call it playful flirting when Auba's not by the pool illuminated by blue light and shirtless and gorgeous in every fucking way. Marco blanks, stares and smiles ever so faintly.

He's head over heels.

 

~

 

Marco still ends up as the guy with the t-shirt. They spend a couple of minutes alone, Auba in the water and Marco sitting at the edge, legs by Auba's torso, when suddenly they aren't.

“I see the modern remake of 'The Little Mermaid'.” An unfamiliar voice cuts through their conversation, an unfamiliar voice belonging to an equally unfamiliar face. A young face, a clean haircut, clean facial hair, clean everything-- and crystal eyes.

Auba laughs, extends a hand and then there's a blurry handshake.

“Marco, meet Mo. Mo, meet Marco.”

“It's Moritz, but Mo works,” the clean boy offers his hand and Marco takes it with a lopsided smile. Mo sits himself down, equally as bared as Auba. “You're the guy Auba met at the park yeah?”

His stomach twists, wonders what else Auba had told Mo. “Yeah.”

“Very nice to meet you, Auba's quite the talker-- makes friends with every John and Jane he encounters.” Mo and Auba chuckle in unison, like it's honest and lovely. And it _is_ lovely or it should be lovely, but Marco can't seem to react similarly. His smile is there, weak and forced, but there.

It's convincing enough that Mo continues to ramble. He tells Marco about Joo Ho in the corner, Alysha by the balcony, Hendrik on the other end of the pool. Auba laughs at the dramatic re-tellings, and Marco feels--

Stupid really.

“--I mean I guess it helps that Auba gets invited to all the parties, modelling has more than just the lookin'-good-perk--” Sections of Mo's voice cut through Marco and then there's a little jab, the tiniest and lightest of knocks that trigger Marco to note how little he knows in the first place. He's inches away from falling in love-- full fledged love, with a man he barely knows anything about, with a man who apparently, has several meetings similar to Marco's, day after day.

And none of it is Auba's fault, and none of it is Mo's fault either. (In fact, Marco's on the verge of thanking the oblivious clear-faced youth for proving his naïveté.)

His mind is overheating.

“Well-- models, can you direct me to the nearest washroom?” He gets up, head reeling.

“Uh yeah, everything alright?” And Auba has the most sympathetic expression on his face-- soft enough that Marco almost reconsiders questioning his hyper-speed-falling. Almost.

“Perfect, just my bladder complaining.”

“I'll lead you there,” Mo offers.

“No, no it's fine. I want to explore the place too.” Marco smiles and he's good at it. (Working with customers for as long as he has means being a very good liar when he needs to be.) Still, Auba meets his gaze with a fallen grin and Marco continues to burn.

 

~

 

He doesn't go to the washroom. Or to be fair, he does but not at Shinji and Ilkay's place.

Marco scrambles out of his tee, kicks his socks off, tosses his bag to the couch, does his business like he usually does, and slides into bed. He's home where it's quiet, where the sheets smell like air freshener and cologne, where Marco is left to sit with his thoughts.

And boy does he sit.

There's a whole bundle of dread, half of these ideas, statements, fuelling the angry part of his brain, and the other half fuelling the sadness. There are thoughts that come every night, but there are some new ones. New questions, new hopes, new pleas that only make Marco feel _more_ awful. But chaos aside, he reaches a conclusion late into the night, when the sun is about to threaten the sky with light, when his eyes are pinked and his eyelids are heavy.

Mats was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's literally been 5 months since the previous chapter. I'm honestly _the worst_. That being said, thanks to everyone who continues to read my stuff! I've been getting more and more requests to write more, and I'm so, so, so flattered that there's a demand of some sort. This fic's been incredibly slow however, because I tend to be awful at doing AU's, and work is taking up 99% of my time right now.
> 
> Still, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'm crossing my fingers that I start writing some more! (And writing better in general!)

**Author's Note:**

> I'd been wanting to post this AU for awhile but I didn't know the best time to. I'm doing it now because I've been asked if I could, so here it is! A new chaptered fic while I continue to ignore my other chaptered fic-- (jfc) but I swear I'll get to both of these with time. Either way, yes, a BVB restaurant AU where Marco really likes the stars. Please allow me to indulge in my oddly specific AUs.


End file.
